Blackbird
by Delilah's Soliloquy
Summary: I'd called her a canary in a coal mine, but I was wrong. Sunny and joyful, a canary would never have survived the arena. No, she was a blackbird. And now she was free.


_Hello Readers! Delilah here. As I was driving to work this morning, the smog emanating form the smokestacks I pass each day put me in a very District 3 kind of mindset, so I had to sit down and write when I got home. The song from which I derived this story's title was on the playlist I chose as the soundtrack to today's commute. _

_I absolutely love Wiress and Beetee, so I guess it's fitting that my first Hunger Games fic would feature them. Unfortunately, only one of them's actually alive in this story, which plunges it into melancholy territory, for which I'm sorry. These stories certainly do have a life of their own. I guess I'll just have to make it up to them by writing them into a happier story._

_Disclaimer: I'm not Suzanne Collins. I own nothing. _

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Blackbird

I'd compared her to a canary in a coal mine, but that wasn't entirely accurate. She's intuitive, yes; but not a canary. Canaries are sunny and cheerful and full of joy. There's no place for a canary in the drab factories of District 3. A canary would never have survived the arena.

Not a canary. A blackbird.

With her long, black hair, like a shiny, dark river. She'd tie it back in a kerchief whenever she was working on her inventions, to keep it out of her face, but a few glossy tendrils always escaped. She'd push them behind her ear in mild frustration, but I thought it suited her. She was the perfect balance of light and darkness.

She used to sing, all the time. I think it was her way of balancing out all the darkness she'd experienced in her life. Music can be very healing. It was _her_ I'd had in mind when I invented my latest music chip, because I saw the joy that music brought to her life. All the hard work I'd put into that chip was well worth it to bring a smile to her face, because so few things could bring out that smile anymore.

She always spoke clearly when she sang. It was practically the only time she didn't need me to finish her sentences.

Come to think of it, there was a song she used to sing; a song about a blackbird. Maybe _that's_ why the image sticks in my mind. It reminds me of her.

How'd it go again? _Pack up all my cares and woe…here I go, singing low…bye, bye, blackbird…_

It was _such_ an old song; I don't even know when it was first popular or where Wiress had heard it in the first place. But it seemed fitting.

She honestly felt that we could make a difference, that we could somehow save Panem from what it's become. Sometimes I think everything she did had a higher purpose. Like that stitching machine of hers. "Think of how it could help…in District Eight…they'll be able to spend less time determining the proper thread to use for each fabric and…" That's what she'd told me when I'd asked her about it. Deep down, we'd both known that the Capitol would surely want to reap the benefits of such an innovation for itself, but neither of us said it out loud. There's so little to hope for nowadays that it was wonderful to have a little bit of optimism.

_No one here can love or understand me…all those hard-luck stories they all hand me…_

Wiress was one of the most misunderstood people I've ever met. Many people simply thought she'd lost it after her Games—she's been known as 'Nuts' amongst the victors for years, but it never seemed to bother her. I, of course, knew better. She wasn't crazy, not even eccentric—on the contrary, she was so very gifted, someone who saw the world from a completely different perspective, and after her Games had broken her it just made it that much harder to crack her code.

Imagine a crystal vase—beautiful, intricate, like the ones you'll find in the fancy homes of the Capitol. As it sits on a side table in someone's palatial living room, you can really appreciate the gorgeous, elaborate workmanship, the clarity of the crystal, the tiniest details of its design. But if someone were to shatter this vase, crushing the crystal underfoot into gritty fragments, suddenly all that workmanship goes to waste. No one can distinguish the intricate patterns and designs, and all its clarity is lost to scratches and cracks. Most people would throw a vase in that kind of shape out. They wouldn't even attempt to fix it, not in that state, because it would take a heroic effort to try and repair such damage. It would be a real labor of love.

So no, not many people have taken the time to really understand her. Even though she was broken, like us all, she still shined for those who took the time to seek out the brilliance beneath the damage.

But she _was_ loved. She still is.

It's hard to adjust at first. To realize that she's actually _gone_; that I'm not going to see her every day, hear her singing as she goes about her work, see her beautiful smile ever again. But I have to start _somewhere_. In the midst of the initial shock and encroaching grief, I realize with a jolt that she's finally free. Wherever she is, she's finally escaped the Capitol and the Games and everything else that troubled her over the years. All the things I couldn't protect her from suddenly don't matter anymore.

"Bye-bye, blackbird," I whisper.

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_Reviews make me smile. Let me know what's on your mind. I always love to hear from you readers!_

_Yours,_

_Delilah_


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